Severn’s most fair to-day!See what a tide of blueShe pours, and flecked alwayWith gold, and what a crewOf seagulls snowy whiteFloat round her to delightVillagers, travellers.A brown thick flood is hersIn winter when the rainsWash down from Midland plains,Halting wayfarers,Low meadows flooding deepWith torrents from the steepMountains of Wales and smallHillocks of no degree—Streams jostling to the sea;(Wrangling yet brotherly).Blue June has altered all—The river makes its fallWith murmurous still sound,Past Pridings faëry ground,And steep-down Newnham cliff....O Boys in trenches, ifYou could see what any may(Escaping town for the day),Strong Severn all aglow,But tideless, running slow:Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer,Blue Bredon leagues away—Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ...Then you would feel the fireOf the First Days inspireYou, when, despising allSave England’s, honour’s call,You dared the worst for her:Faced all things without fear,So she might stand alwayA free Mother of men;High Queen as on this day.There would flood through you againThe old faith, the old prideWherein our fathers died,Whereby our land was builded and dignified.
Severn’s most fair to-day!See what a tide of blueShe pours, and flecked alwayWith gold, and what a crewOf seagulls snowy whiteFloat round her to delightVillagers, travellers.A brown thick flood is hersIn winter when the rainsWash down from Midland plains,Halting wayfarers,Low meadows flooding deepWith torrents from the steepMountains of Wales and smallHillocks of no degree—Streams jostling to the sea;(Wrangling yet brotherly).Blue June has altered all—The river makes its fallWith murmurous still sound,Past Pridings faëry ground,And steep-down Newnham cliff....O Boys in trenches, ifYou could see what any may(Escaping town for the day),Strong Severn all aglow,But tideless, running slow:Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer,Blue Bredon leagues away—Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ...Then you would feel the fireOf the First Days inspireYou, when, despising allSave England’s, honour’s call,You dared the worst for her:Faced all things without fear,So she might stand alwayA free Mother of men;High Queen as on this day.There would flood through you againThe old faith, the old prideWherein our fathers died,Whereby our land was builded and dignified.
Severn’s most fair to-day!See what a tide of blueShe pours, and flecked alwayWith gold, and what a crewOf seagulls snowy whiteFloat round her to delightVillagers, travellers.A brown thick flood is hersIn winter when the rainsWash down from Midland plains,Halting wayfarers,Low meadows flooding deepWith torrents from the steepMountains of Wales and smallHillocks of no degree—Streams jostling to the sea;(Wrangling yet brotherly).Blue June has altered all—The river makes its fallWith murmurous still sound,Past Pridings faëry ground,And steep-down Newnham cliff....O Boys in trenches, ifYou could see what any may(Escaping town for the day),Strong Severn all aglow,But tideless, running slow:Far Cotswolds all a-shimmer,Blue Bredon leagues away—Huge Malverns, farther, dimmer ...Then you would feel the fireOf the First Days inspireYou, when, despising allSave England’s, honour’s call,You dared the worst for her:Faced all things without fear,So she might stand alwayA free Mother of men;High Queen as on this day.There would flood through you againThe old faith, the old prideWherein our fathers died,Whereby our land was builded and dignified.
Likesoftly clanging cymbals werePlane-trees, poplars Autumn hadArrayed in gloriously sadGarments of beauty wind-astir;It was the day of all the dead—Toussaints. In sombre twos and threesBetween those coloured pillars wentDrab mourners. Full of presencesThe air seemed ... ever and anon rentBy a slow bell’s solemnities.The past year’s gloriously deadCame, folk dear to that rich earthHad given them sustenance and birth,Breath and dreams and daily bread,Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.Merville across the plain gleamed white,The thronged still air gave never a sound,Only, monotonous untonedThe bell of grief and lost delight.Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.Sudden, that sense of peace and prayerLike vapour faded. Round the bendSwung lines of khaki without end....Common was water, earth and air;Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.
Likesoftly clanging cymbals werePlane-trees, poplars Autumn hadArrayed in gloriously sadGarments of beauty wind-astir;It was the day of all the dead—Toussaints. In sombre twos and threesBetween those coloured pillars wentDrab mourners. Full of presencesThe air seemed ... ever and anon rentBy a slow bell’s solemnities.The past year’s gloriously deadCame, folk dear to that rich earthHad given them sustenance and birth,Breath and dreams and daily bread,Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.Merville across the plain gleamed white,The thronged still air gave never a sound,Only, monotonous untonedThe bell of grief and lost delight.Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.Sudden, that sense of peace and prayerLike vapour faded. Round the bendSwung lines of khaki without end....Common was water, earth and air;Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.
Likesoftly clanging cymbals werePlane-trees, poplars Autumn hadArrayed in gloriously sadGarments of beauty wind-astir;It was the day of all the dead—
Toussaints. In sombre twos and threesBetween those coloured pillars wentDrab mourners. Full of presencesThe air seemed ... ever and anon rentBy a slow bell’s solemnities.
The past year’s gloriously deadCame, folk dear to that rich earthHad given them sustenance and birth,Breath and dreams and daily bread,Took labour-sweat, returned them mirth.
Merville across the plain gleamed white,The thronged still air gave never a sound,Only, monotonous untonedThe bell of grief and lost delight.Gay leaves slow fluttered to the ground.
Sudden, that sense of peace and prayerLike vapour faded. Round the bendSwung lines of khaki without end....Common was water, earth and air;Death seemed a hard thing not to mend.
Theearly dew was still untrodden,Flawless it lay on flower and blade,The last caress of night’s cold fragranceA freshness in the young day made.The velvet and the silver floorOf the orchard-close was gold inlaidWith spears and streaks of early sunlight—Such beauty makes men half afraid.An old man at his heap of stonesTurned as I neared his clinking hammer,Part of the earth he seemed, the trees,The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spokeFrom his mouth, as if the field dark redOn our right hand had greeted meWith words, that grew tall grain instead.. . . . .Oh, years ago, and near forgot!Yet, as I walked the Flemish way,An hour gone, England spoke to meAs clear of speech as on that day;Since peasants by the roadway workingHailed us in tones uncouth, and oneTurned his face toward the marching column,Fronted, took gladness from the sun.And straight my mind was set on singingFor memory of a wrinkled face,Orchards untrodden, far to travel,Sweet to find in my own place.
Theearly dew was still untrodden,Flawless it lay on flower and blade,The last caress of night’s cold fragranceA freshness in the young day made.The velvet and the silver floorOf the orchard-close was gold inlaidWith spears and streaks of early sunlight—Such beauty makes men half afraid.An old man at his heap of stonesTurned as I neared his clinking hammer,Part of the earth he seemed, the trees,The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spokeFrom his mouth, as if the field dark redOn our right hand had greeted meWith words, that grew tall grain instead.. . . . .Oh, years ago, and near forgot!Yet, as I walked the Flemish way,An hour gone, England spoke to meAs clear of speech as on that day;Since peasants by the roadway workingHailed us in tones uncouth, and oneTurned his face toward the marching column,Fronted, took gladness from the sun.And straight my mind was set on singingFor memory of a wrinkled face,Orchards untrodden, far to travel,Sweet to find in my own place.
Theearly dew was still untrodden,Flawless it lay on flower and blade,The last caress of night’s cold fragranceA freshness in the young day made.
The velvet and the silver floorOf the orchard-close was gold inlaidWith spears and streaks of early sunlight—Such beauty makes men half afraid.
An old man at his heap of stonesTurned as I neared his clinking hammer,Part of the earth he seemed, the trees,The sky, the twelve-hour heat of summer.
“Fine marnen, zür!” And the earth spokeFrom his mouth, as if the field dark redOn our right hand had greeted meWith words, that grew tall grain instead.. . . . .Oh, years ago, and near forgot!Yet, as I walked the Flemish way,An hour gone, England spoke to meAs clear of speech as on that day;Since peasants by the roadway workingHailed us in tones uncouth, and oneTurned his face toward the marching column,Fronted, took gladness from the sun.
And straight my mind was set on singingFor memory of a wrinkled face,Orchards untrodden, far to travel,Sweet to find in my own place.
Theyellow willow leaves that floatDown Severn after Autumn rainsTake not of trouble any note—Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.But man that has a thousand tiesOf homage to his place of birth,Nothing surrenders when he dies;But yearns for ever to his earth—Red ploughlands, trees that friended him,Warm house of shelter, orchard peace.In day’s last rosy influence dimThey flock to us without a cease;Through fast-shut doors of olden housesIn soundless night the dear dead come,Whose sorrow no live folk arouses,Running for comfort hither home.Though leaves on tide may idly range,Grounding at last on some far mire—Our memories can never change:We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.
Theyellow willow leaves that floatDown Severn after Autumn rainsTake not of trouble any note—Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.But man that has a thousand tiesOf homage to his place of birth,Nothing surrenders when he dies;But yearns for ever to his earth—Red ploughlands, trees that friended him,Warm house of shelter, orchard peace.In day’s last rosy influence dimThey flock to us without a cease;Through fast-shut doors of olden housesIn soundless night the dear dead come,Whose sorrow no live folk arouses,Running for comfort hither home.Though leaves on tide may idly range,Grounding at last on some far mire—Our memories can never change:We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.
Theyellow willow leaves that floatDown Severn after Autumn rainsTake not of trouble any note—Lost to the tree, its joys and pains.
But man that has a thousand tiesOf homage to his place of birth,Nothing surrenders when he dies;But yearns for ever to his earth—
Red ploughlands, trees that friended him,Warm house of shelter, orchard peace.In day’s last rosy influence dimThey flock to us without a cease;
Through fast-shut doors of olden housesIn soundless night the dear dead come,Whose sorrow no live folk arouses,Running for comfort hither home.
Though leaves on tide may idly range,Grounding at last on some far mire—Our memories can never change:We are bond, we are ruled with Love’s desire.
IfI were on the High RoadThat runs to Malvern Town,I should not need to read, to smoke,My fear of death to drown;Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dapplingThe sweet land up and down.But here the shells rush over,We lie in evil holes,We burrow into darknessLike rabbits or like moles,Men that have breathed the Severn air,Men that have eyes and souls.To-day the grass runs overWith ripples like the sea,And men stand up and drink airEasy and sweet and free;But days like this are half a curse,And Beauty troubles me.The shadows under orchards thereMust be as clear and black—At Minsterworth, at Framilode—As though we had all come back;Were out at making hay or tedding,Piling the yellow stack.The gardens grow as freshlyOn Cotswold’s green and white;The grey-stone cottage coloursAre lovely to the sight,As we were glad for dreams there,Slept deep at home at night;While here we die a dozen deathsA score of times a day;Trying to keep up heart and notTo give ourselves away.“Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,”“Some time yet,” they say!
IfI were on the High RoadThat runs to Malvern Town,I should not need to read, to smoke,My fear of death to drown;Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dapplingThe sweet land up and down.But here the shells rush over,We lie in evil holes,We burrow into darknessLike rabbits or like moles,Men that have breathed the Severn air,Men that have eyes and souls.To-day the grass runs overWith ripples like the sea,And men stand up and drink airEasy and sweet and free;But days like this are half a curse,And Beauty troubles me.The shadows under orchards thereMust be as clear and black—At Minsterworth, at Framilode—As though we had all come back;Were out at making hay or tedding,Piling the yellow stack.The gardens grow as freshlyOn Cotswold’s green and white;The grey-stone cottage coloursAre lovely to the sight,As we were glad for dreams there,Slept deep at home at night;While here we die a dozen deathsA score of times a day;Trying to keep up heart and notTo give ourselves away.“Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,”“Some time yet,” they say!
IfI were on the High RoadThat runs to Malvern Town,I should not need to read, to smoke,My fear of death to drown;Watching the clouds, skies, shadows dapplingThe sweet land up and down.
But here the shells rush over,We lie in evil holes,We burrow into darknessLike rabbits or like moles,Men that have breathed the Severn air,Men that have eyes and souls.
To-day the grass runs overWith ripples like the sea,And men stand up and drink airEasy and sweet and free;But days like this are half a curse,And Beauty troubles me.
The shadows under orchards thereMust be as clear and black—At Minsterworth, at Framilode—As though we had all come back;Were out at making hay or tedding,Piling the yellow stack.
The gardens grow as freshlyOn Cotswold’s green and white;The grey-stone cottage coloursAre lovely to the sight,As we were glad for dreams there,Slept deep at home at night;
While here we die a dozen deathsA score of times a day;Trying to keep up heart and notTo give ourselves away.“Two years longer,” “Peace to-morrow,”“Some time yet,” they say!
Inkblack and lustreless may holdA passion full of living fire:Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold—Things precious hide their bright in the mire.And a whole county’s lovely prideIn one small book I found that madeMore real the pictured Severn sideThan crash and shock of cannonade.Beneath, more strong than that dread noiseThe talk I heard of trees and men,The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ...God send us dreams in peace again.
Inkblack and lustreless may holdA passion full of living fire:Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold—Things precious hide their bright in the mire.And a whole county’s lovely prideIn one small book I found that madeMore real the pictured Severn sideThan crash and shock of cannonade.Beneath, more strong than that dread noiseThe talk I heard of trees and men,The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ...God send us dreams in peace again.
Inkblack and lustreless may holdA passion full of living fire:Spring’s green the Autumn does enfold—Things precious hide their bright in the mire.
And a whole county’s lovely prideIn one small book I found that madeMore real the pictured Severn sideThan crash and shock of cannonade.
Beneath, more strong than that dread noiseThe talk I heard of trees and men,The still low-murmuring Earth-voice ...God send us dreams in peace again.
I haveforgotten where the pleasure layIn resting idle in the summer weather,Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway,Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;Here where gray day to day goes dully on,So evenly, so grayly that the heartNot notices nor cares that Time is goneThat might be jewelled bright and set apart.And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in meSuch music of Joy when some perceivéd flowerBreaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy,I burn and hunger for that immortal hourWhen Peace shall bring me first to my own home,To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afarGreat cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come,Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.
I haveforgotten where the pleasure layIn resting idle in the summer weather,Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway,Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;Here where gray day to day goes dully on,So evenly, so grayly that the heartNot notices nor cares that Time is goneThat might be jewelled bright and set apart.And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in meSuch music of Joy when some perceivéd flowerBreaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy,I burn and hunger for that immortal hourWhen Peace shall bring me first to my own home,To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afarGreat cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come,Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.
I haveforgotten where the pleasure layIn resting idle in the summer weather,Waiting on Beauty’s power my spirit to sway,Since Life has taken me and flung me hither;
Here where gray day to day goes dully on,So evenly, so grayly that the heartNot notices nor cares that Time is goneThat might be jewelled bright and set apart.
And yet, for all this weight, there stirs in meSuch music of Joy when some perceivéd flowerBreaks irresistible this crust, this lethargy,I burn and hunger for that immortal hour
When Peace shall bring me first to my own home,To my own hills; I’ll climb and vision afarGreat cloud-fleets line on line up Severn come,Where winds of Joy shall cleanse the stain of war.
He’sgone, and all our plansAre useless indeed.We’ll walk no more on CotswoldWhere the sheep feedQuietly and take no heed.His body that was so quickIs not as youKnew it, on Severn riverUnder the blueDriving our small boat through.You would not know him now ...But still he diedNobly, so cover him overWith violets of pridePurple from Severn side.Cover him, cover him soon!And with thick-setMasses of memoried flowers—Hide that red wetThing I must somehow forget.
He’sgone, and all our plansAre useless indeed.We’ll walk no more on CotswoldWhere the sheep feedQuietly and take no heed.His body that was so quickIs not as youKnew it, on Severn riverUnder the blueDriving our small boat through.You would not know him now ...But still he diedNobly, so cover him overWith violets of pridePurple from Severn side.Cover him, cover him soon!And with thick-setMasses of memoried flowers—Hide that red wetThing I must somehow forget.
He’sgone, and all our plansAre useless indeed.We’ll walk no more on CotswoldWhere the sheep feedQuietly and take no heed.
His body that was so quickIs not as youKnew it, on Severn riverUnder the blueDriving our small boat through.
You would not know him now ...But still he diedNobly, so cover him overWith violets of pridePurple from Severn side.
Cover him, cover him soon!And with thick-setMasses of memoried flowers—Hide that red wetThing I must somehow forget.
Nocolour yet appearsOn trees still summer fine,The hill has brown sheaves yet,Bare earth is hard and set;But autumn sends a signIn this as in other years.For birds that flew aloneAnd scattered sought their foodGather in whirring bands;—Starlings, about the landsSpring cherished, summer made good,Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.But above that windy soundA deeper note of fearAll daylight without ceaseTroubles the country peace;War birds, high in the air,Airplanes shadow the ground.Seawards to AfricaStarlings with joy shall turn,War birds to skies of strife,Where Death is ever at Life;High in mid-air may burnGreat things that trouble day.Their time is perilous,Governed by Fate obscure;But when our April comesAbout the thatch-eaved homes,—Cleaving sweet air, the sureStarlings shall come to us.
Nocolour yet appearsOn trees still summer fine,The hill has brown sheaves yet,Bare earth is hard and set;But autumn sends a signIn this as in other years.For birds that flew aloneAnd scattered sought their foodGather in whirring bands;—Starlings, about the landsSpring cherished, summer made good,Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.But above that windy soundA deeper note of fearAll daylight without ceaseTroubles the country peace;War birds, high in the air,Airplanes shadow the ground.Seawards to AfricaStarlings with joy shall turn,War birds to skies of strife,Where Death is ever at Life;High in mid-air may burnGreat things that trouble day.Their time is perilous,Governed by Fate obscure;But when our April comesAbout the thatch-eaved homes,—Cleaving sweet air, the sureStarlings shall come to us.
Nocolour yet appearsOn trees still summer fine,The hill has brown sheaves yet,Bare earth is hard and set;But autumn sends a signIn this as in other years.
For birds that flew aloneAnd scattered sought their foodGather in whirring bands;—Starlings, about the landsSpring cherished, summer made good,Dark bird-clouds soon to be gone.
But above that windy soundA deeper note of fearAll daylight without ceaseTroubles the country peace;War birds, high in the air,Airplanes shadow the ground.
Seawards to AfricaStarlings with joy shall turn,War birds to skies of strife,Where Death is ever at Life;High in mid-air may burnGreat things that trouble day.
Their time is perilous,Governed by Fate obscure;But when our April comesAbout the thatch-eaved homes,—Cleaving sweet air, the sureStarlings shall come to us.
Themoon, one tree, one star,Still meadows far,Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.November’s nightOf all her nights, I thought, and turned to seeAgain that moon and star-supporting tree.If some most quiet tune had spoken then;Some silver thread of sound; a core withinThat sea-deep silentness, I had not knownEver such joy in peace, but sound was none—Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.
Themoon, one tree, one star,Still meadows far,Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.November’s nightOf all her nights, I thought, and turned to seeAgain that moon and star-supporting tree.If some most quiet tune had spoken then;Some silver thread of sound; a core withinThat sea-deep silentness, I had not knownEver such joy in peace, but sound was none—Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.
Themoon, one tree, one star,Still meadows far,Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white.November’s nightOf all her nights, I thought, and turned to seeAgain that moon and star-supporting tree.If some most quiet tune had spoken then;Some silver thread of sound; a core withinThat sea-deep silentness, I had not knownEver such joy in peace, but sound was none—Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.
Why, I am on fire now, and tremulousWith sense of Beauty long denied; the firstOpening of floodgate to the glorious burstOf Freedom from the Fate that limits usTo work in darkness pining for the light,Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air,Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bareWhite heat of silver passion fiercely bright!While sweating at the foul task, we can tasteNo Joy that’s clean, no Love but something letsIt from its power; the wisest soul forgetsWhat’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste.Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell.If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.
Why, I am on fire now, and tremulousWith sense of Beauty long denied; the firstOpening of floodgate to the glorious burstOf Freedom from the Fate that limits usTo work in darkness pining for the light,Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air,Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bareWhite heat of silver passion fiercely bright!While sweating at the foul task, we can tasteNo Joy that’s clean, no Love but something letsIt from its power; the wisest soul forgetsWhat’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste.Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell.If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.
Why, I am on fire now, and tremulousWith sense of Beauty long denied; the firstOpening of floodgate to the glorious burstOf Freedom from the Fate that limits usTo work in darkness pining for the light,Thirsting for sweet untainted draughts of air,Clouds sunset coloured, Music ... O Music’s bareWhite heat of silver passion fiercely bright!While sweating at the foul task, we can tasteNo Joy that’s clean, no Love but something letsIt from its power; the wisest soul forgetsWhat’s beautiful, or delicate, or chaste.Orpheus drew me (as once his bride) from Hell.If wisely, her or me, the Gods can tell.
I shothim, and it had to beOne of us! ’Twas him or me.“Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blameMe, for you would do the same.My mother, she can’t sleep for fearOf what might be a-happening hereTo me. Perhaps it might be bestTo die, and set her fears at rest.For worst is worst, and worry’s done.Perhaps he was the only son ...Yet God keeps still, and does not sayA word of guidance any way.Well, if they get me, first I’ll findThat boy, and tell him all my mind,And see who felt the bullet worst,And ask his pardon, if I durst.All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.A man might rave, or shout, or sob;And God He takes no sort of heed.This is a bloody mess indeed.
I shothim, and it had to beOne of us! ’Twas him or me.“Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blameMe, for you would do the same.My mother, she can’t sleep for fearOf what might be a-happening hereTo me. Perhaps it might be bestTo die, and set her fears at rest.For worst is worst, and worry’s done.Perhaps he was the only son ...Yet God keeps still, and does not sayA word of guidance any way.Well, if they get me, first I’ll findThat boy, and tell him all my mind,And see who felt the bullet worst,And ask his pardon, if I durst.All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.A man might rave, or shout, or sob;And God He takes no sort of heed.This is a bloody mess indeed.
I shothim, and it had to beOne of us! ’Twas him or me.“Couldn’t be helped,” and none can blameMe, for you would do the same.
My mother, she can’t sleep for fearOf what might be a-happening hereTo me. Perhaps it might be bestTo die, and set her fears at rest.
For worst is worst, and worry’s done.Perhaps he was the only son ...Yet God keeps still, and does not sayA word of guidance any way.
Well, if they get me, first I’ll findThat boy, and tell him all my mind,And see who felt the bullet worst,And ask his pardon, if I durst.
All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.A man might rave, or shout, or sob;And God He takes no sort of heed.This is a bloody mess indeed.
Wakenedby birds and sun, laughter of the wind,A man might see all heart’s desire by raisingHis pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazingAnd drowsy thought)—but then a green most kindWaved welcome, and the rifted sky behindShowed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing,Man to delight and set his heart on praisingThe Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing,Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowingNourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowingSweet as the air—Wainlodes and AshleworthTo northward showed, a land where a great kingMight sit to receive homage from the whole earth.
Wakenedby birds and sun, laughter of the wind,A man might see all heart’s desire by raisingHis pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazingAnd drowsy thought)—but then a green most kindWaved welcome, and the rifted sky behindShowed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing,Man to delight and set his heart on praisingThe Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing,Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowingNourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowingSweet as the air—Wainlodes and AshleworthTo northward showed, a land where a great kingMight sit to receive homage from the whole earth.
Wakenedby birds and sun, laughter of the wind,A man might see all heart’s desire by raisingHis pillowed sleepy head (still apt for lazingAnd drowsy thought)—but then a green most kindWaved welcome, and the rifted sky behindShowed blue, whereon cloud-ships full-sailed went racing,Man to delight and set his heart on praisingThe Maker of all things, bountiful-hearted, kind.
May Hill, that half-revealéd tree-clad thing,Maisemore’s delightful ridge, where Severn flowingNourished a wealth of lovely wild things blowingSweet as the air—Wainlodes and AshleworthTo northward showed, a land where a great kingMight sit to receive homage from the whole earth.
Withquiet tread, with softly smiling facesThe nurses move like music through the room;While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”)Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom,As though the Spring were come with all the Graces,Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power,And old before their time, take courtesySo sweet of girl or woman, as if some flowerMost strangely fair of Spring were suddenlyThick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour—The gift unlocked for—lovely Charity.Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slowCorruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe againThe free breath was theirs so long ago.Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain.Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow.Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.
Withquiet tread, with softly smiling facesThe nurses move like music through the room;While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”)Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom,As though the Spring were come with all the Graces,Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power,And old before their time, take courtesySo sweet of girl or woman, as if some flowerMost strangely fair of Spring were suddenlyThick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour—The gift unlocked for—lovely Charity.Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slowCorruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe againThe free breath was theirs so long ago.Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain.Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow.Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.
Withquiet tread, with softly smiling facesThe nurses move like music through the room;While broken men (known, technically, as “cases”)Watch them with eyes late deep in bitter gloom,As though the Spring were come with all the Graces,Or maiden April walked the ward in bloom.
Men that have grown forgetful of Joy’s power,And old before their time, take courtesySo sweet of girl or woman, as if some flowerMost strangely fair of Spring were suddenlyThick in the woods at Winter’s blackest hour—The gift unlocked for—lovely Charity.
Their anguish they forget, and, worse, the slowCorruption of Joy’s springs; now breathe againThe free breath was theirs so long ago.Courage renewed makes mock at the old pain.Life’s loveliness brings tears, and a new glow.Somehow their sacrifice seems not in vain.
Lyingawake in the wardLong hours as any must,I wonder where the dustComes from, the Dust, the Dust!That makes their life so hard,—The nurses, who must rubThe soon appearing crustOf green on the bright knob.And little bits of fluff,Dull white upon the floor,Most soft, most curious stuffThat sidles to the doorWhen no one sees, and makesDeep wrinkles and heart-breaks;Light sighs and curses rough.Oh! if a scientistOf warm and kindly heartShould live a while apart,(Old Satan’s tail to twist,)Poring on crucibles,Vessels uncanny, tillHe won at last to Hell’sGrand secret of ill-will—How Fluff comes and how Dust,Then nurses all would paintCheeks pretty for his sake;Or stay in prayer awakeAll night for that great SaintOf Cleanliness, that brightDevoted anchorite;Brave champion and true knight.
Lyingawake in the wardLong hours as any must,I wonder where the dustComes from, the Dust, the Dust!That makes their life so hard,—The nurses, who must rubThe soon appearing crustOf green on the bright knob.And little bits of fluff,Dull white upon the floor,Most soft, most curious stuffThat sidles to the doorWhen no one sees, and makesDeep wrinkles and heart-breaks;Light sighs and curses rough.Oh! if a scientistOf warm and kindly heartShould live a while apart,(Old Satan’s tail to twist,)Poring on crucibles,Vessels uncanny, tillHe won at last to Hell’sGrand secret of ill-will—How Fluff comes and how Dust,Then nurses all would paintCheeks pretty for his sake;Or stay in prayer awakeAll night for that great SaintOf Cleanliness, that brightDevoted anchorite;Brave champion and true knight.
Lyingawake in the wardLong hours as any must,I wonder where the dustComes from, the Dust, the Dust!That makes their life so hard,—The nurses, who must rubThe soon appearing crustOf green on the bright knob.
And little bits of fluff,Dull white upon the floor,Most soft, most curious stuffThat sidles to the doorWhen no one sees, and makesDeep wrinkles and heart-breaks;Light sighs and curses rough.
Oh! if a scientistOf warm and kindly heartShould live a while apart,(Old Satan’s tail to twist,)Poring on crucibles,Vessels uncanny, tillHe won at last to Hell’sGrand secret of ill-will—How Fluff comes and how Dust,Then nurses all would paintCheeks pretty for his sake;Or stay in prayer awakeAll night for that great SaintOf Cleanliness, that brightDevoted anchorite;Brave champion and true knight.
A soldierlooked at me with blue hawk-eyes,With kindly glances sorrow had made wise,And talked till all I’d ever read in booksMelted to ashes in his burning looks;And poets I’d despise and craft of pen,If, while he told his coloured wonder-talesOf Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales(Alive past words or power of writing men),My heart had not exulted in his braveAir of the wild woodland and sea wave;Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue,My high-triumphing spirit had not sungAs in some April when the world was young.
A soldierlooked at me with blue hawk-eyes,With kindly glances sorrow had made wise,And talked till all I’d ever read in booksMelted to ashes in his burning looks;And poets I’d despise and craft of pen,If, while he told his coloured wonder-talesOf Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales(Alive past words or power of writing men),My heart had not exulted in his braveAir of the wild woodland and sea wave;Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue,My high-triumphing spirit had not sungAs in some April when the world was young.
A soldierlooked at me with blue hawk-eyes,With kindly glances sorrow had made wise,And talked till all I’d ever read in booksMelted to ashes in his burning looks;And poets I’d despise and craft of pen,If, while he told his coloured wonder-talesOf Glasgow, Ypres, sea mist, spouting whales(Alive past words or power of writing men),My heart had not exulted in his braveAir of the wild woodland and sea wave;Or if, with each new sentence from his tongue,My high-triumphing spirit had not sungAs in some April when the world was young.
Hetalked of Africa,That fat and easy man.I’d but to say a word,And straight the tales began.And when I’d wish to read,That man would not discloseA thought of harm, but sleep;Hard-breathing through his nose.Then when I’d wish to hearMore tales of Africa,’Twas but to wake him up,And but a word to sayTo press the button, andKeep quiet; nothing more;For tales of stretching veldt,Kaffir and sullen Boer.O what a lovely friend!O quiet easy life!I wonder if his sisterWould care to be my wife....
Hetalked of Africa,That fat and easy man.I’d but to say a word,And straight the tales began.And when I’d wish to read,That man would not discloseA thought of harm, but sleep;Hard-breathing through his nose.Then when I’d wish to hearMore tales of Africa,’Twas but to wake him up,And but a word to sayTo press the button, andKeep quiet; nothing more;For tales of stretching veldt,Kaffir and sullen Boer.O what a lovely friend!O quiet easy life!I wonder if his sisterWould care to be my wife....
Hetalked of Africa,That fat and easy man.I’d but to say a word,And straight the tales began.
And when I’d wish to read,That man would not discloseA thought of harm, but sleep;Hard-breathing through his nose.
Then when I’d wish to hearMore tales of Africa,’Twas but to wake him up,And but a word to say
To press the button, andKeep quiet; nothing more;For tales of stretching veldt,Kaffir and sullen Boer.
O what a lovely friend!O quiet easy life!I wonder if his sisterWould care to be my wife....
Indomitableenergy controlledBy Fate to wayward ends and to half use,He should have given his service to the Muse,To most men shy, to him, her humble soldier,Frank-hearted, generous, bold.Yet though his fate be cross, he shall not tireNor seek another service than his own:For selfless valour and the primal fireShine out from him, as once from great Ulysses,That king without a throne.
Indomitableenergy controlledBy Fate to wayward ends and to half use,He should have given his service to the Muse,To most men shy, to him, her humble soldier,Frank-hearted, generous, bold.Yet though his fate be cross, he shall not tireNor seek another service than his own:For selfless valour and the primal fireShine out from him, as once from great Ulysses,That king without a throne.
Indomitableenergy controlledBy Fate to wayward ends and to half use,He should have given his service to the Muse,To most men shy, to him, her humble soldier,Frank-hearted, generous, bold.
Yet though his fate be cross, he shall not tireNor seek another service than his own:For selfless valour and the primal fireShine out from him, as once from great Ulysses,That king without a throne.
O dullconfounded Thing,You will not singThough I distress your keysWith thumps; in ecstasiesOf wrath, at some mis-saidWord of the deathless Dead!Chopin or dear Mozart,How must it break your heartTo hear this Beast refuseThe choice gifts of the Muse!And turn your airy thoughtWith clumsiness to nought.I am guilty too, for IHave let the fine thing by;And spoilt high graciousnessWith a note more or less;Whose wandering fingers knowNot surely where they go;Whose mind most weak, most poor,Your fire may not endureThat’s passionate, that’s pure.And yet, and yet, men pale(Late under PasschendaeleOr some such blot on earth)Feel once again the birthOf joy in them, and knowThat Beauty’s not a showOf lovely things long past.And stricken men at lastTake heart and glimpse the light,Grow strong and comfortedWith eyes that challenge night,With proud-poised gallant head,And new-born keen delight.Beethoven, Schumann, Bach:These men do greatly lack,And you have greatly given.The fervent blue of HeavenThey will see with purer eyes—Suffering has made them wise;Music shall make them sweet.If they shall see the starsMore clearly after their wars,That is a good wage.Yours is a heritageMost noble and complete.And if we, blind, have goneWhere a great glory shone,Or deaf, where angels sang;Forgive us, for you, too,A little blind were, knewOf weakness, once, the pang;Of darkness, once, the fear.And so, forgive this dearPig-hearted chest of strings,And me, whose heart not singsNor triumphs as do yoursWithin the Heavenly doors—Walking the clear unhindered level floors.
O dullconfounded Thing,You will not singThough I distress your keysWith thumps; in ecstasiesOf wrath, at some mis-saidWord of the deathless Dead!Chopin or dear Mozart,How must it break your heartTo hear this Beast refuseThe choice gifts of the Muse!And turn your airy thoughtWith clumsiness to nought.I am guilty too, for IHave let the fine thing by;And spoilt high graciousnessWith a note more or less;Whose wandering fingers knowNot surely where they go;Whose mind most weak, most poor,Your fire may not endureThat’s passionate, that’s pure.And yet, and yet, men pale(Late under PasschendaeleOr some such blot on earth)Feel once again the birthOf joy in them, and knowThat Beauty’s not a showOf lovely things long past.And stricken men at lastTake heart and glimpse the light,Grow strong and comfortedWith eyes that challenge night,With proud-poised gallant head,And new-born keen delight.Beethoven, Schumann, Bach:These men do greatly lack,And you have greatly given.The fervent blue of HeavenThey will see with purer eyes—Suffering has made them wise;Music shall make them sweet.If they shall see the starsMore clearly after their wars,That is a good wage.Yours is a heritageMost noble and complete.And if we, blind, have goneWhere a great glory shone,Or deaf, where angels sang;Forgive us, for you, too,A little blind were, knewOf weakness, once, the pang;Of darkness, once, the fear.And so, forgive this dearPig-hearted chest of strings,And me, whose heart not singsNor triumphs as do yoursWithin the Heavenly doors—Walking the clear unhindered level floors.
O dullconfounded Thing,You will not singThough I distress your keysWith thumps; in ecstasiesOf wrath, at some mis-saidWord of the deathless Dead!
Chopin or dear Mozart,How must it break your heartTo hear this Beast refuseThe choice gifts of the Muse!And turn your airy thoughtWith clumsiness to nought.
I am guilty too, for IHave let the fine thing by;And spoilt high graciousnessWith a note more or less;Whose wandering fingers knowNot surely where they go;Whose mind most weak, most poor,Your fire may not endureThat’s passionate, that’s pure.
And yet, and yet, men pale(Late under PasschendaeleOr some such blot on earth)Feel once again the birthOf joy in them, and knowThat Beauty’s not a showOf lovely things long past.
And stricken men at lastTake heart and glimpse the light,Grow strong and comfortedWith eyes that challenge night,With proud-poised gallant head,And new-born keen delight.
Beethoven, Schumann, Bach:These men do greatly lack,And you have greatly given.The fervent blue of HeavenThey will see with purer eyes—Suffering has made them wise;Music shall make them sweet.
If they shall see the starsMore clearly after their wars,That is a good wage.Yours is a heritageMost noble and complete.And if we, blind, have goneWhere a great glory shone,Or deaf, where angels sang;Forgive us, for you, too,A little blind were, knewOf weakness, once, the pang;Of darkness, once, the fear.
And so, forgive this dearPig-hearted chest of strings,And me, whose heart not singsNor triumphs as do yoursWithin the Heavenly doors—Walking the clear unhindered level floors.
Theproud and sturdy horsesGather their willing forces,Unswerving make their coursesOver the brownEarth that was mowing meadowA month agone, where shadowAnd light in the tall grassesQuivered and was gone.They spoil the nest of ploverAnd lark, turn up, uncoverThe bones of many a loverUnfamed in tales;Arrows, old flints of hammers,The rooks with hungry clamoursHover around and settleSeeking full meals.Who knows what splendid storyLies here, what hidden gloryOf brave defeat or victoryThis earth might show.None cares; the surging horsesGather untiring forcesThe keen-eyed farmer afterGuiding the plough.
Theproud and sturdy horsesGather their willing forces,Unswerving make their coursesOver the brownEarth that was mowing meadowA month agone, where shadowAnd light in the tall grassesQuivered and was gone.They spoil the nest of ploverAnd lark, turn up, uncoverThe bones of many a loverUnfamed in tales;Arrows, old flints of hammers,The rooks with hungry clamoursHover around and settleSeeking full meals.Who knows what splendid storyLies here, what hidden gloryOf brave defeat or victoryThis earth might show.None cares; the surging horsesGather untiring forcesThe keen-eyed farmer afterGuiding the plough.
Theproud and sturdy horsesGather their willing forces,Unswerving make their coursesOver the brownEarth that was mowing meadowA month agone, where shadowAnd light in the tall grassesQuivered and was gone.
They spoil the nest of ploverAnd lark, turn up, uncoverThe bones of many a loverUnfamed in tales;Arrows, old flints of hammers,The rooks with hungry clamoursHover around and settleSeeking full meals.
Who knows what splendid storyLies here, what hidden gloryOf brave defeat or victoryThis earth might show.None cares; the surging horsesGather untiring forcesThe keen-eyed farmer afterGuiding the plough.
I’dnot have missed one single scrap of painThat brought me to such friends, and them to me;And precious is the smallest agony,The greatest, willingly to bear again—Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’enBy Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea.Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorouslyRides high above all Fortune without stain.Their eyes were stars within the blackest nightOf Evil’s trial. Never marinerDid trust so in the ever-fixéd starAs I in those. And so their laughter sounded—Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight;Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded.
I’dnot have missed one single scrap of painThat brought me to such friends, and them to me;And precious is the smallest agony,The greatest, willingly to bear again—Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’enBy Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea.Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorouslyRides high above all Fortune without stain.Their eyes were stars within the blackest nightOf Evil’s trial. Never marinerDid trust so in the ever-fixéd starAs I in those. And so their laughter sounded—Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight;Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded.
I’dnot have missed one single scrap of painThat brought me to such friends, and them to me;And precious is the smallest agony,The greatest, willingly to bear again—Cruel frost, night vigils, death so often ta’enBy Golgothas untold from Somme to Sea.Duty’s a grey thing; Friendship valorouslyRides high above all Fortune without stain.
Their eyes were stars within the blackest nightOf Evil’s trial. Never marinerDid trust so in the ever-fixéd starAs I in those. And so their laughter sounded—Trumpets of Victory glittering in sunlight;Though Hell’s power ringed them in, and night surrounded.
Incurtain of the hazel wood,From sunset to the clear-of-star,An hour or more I feared, but stood—My lover’s road was far.Until within the ferny brakeStirred patter feet and silver talkThat set all horror wide awake—I fear the fairy folk ...That bind with chains and change a maidFrom happy smiling to a thingBetter in ground unhallowed laidWhere holy bells not ring.And whether late he came or soonI know not, through a rush of airAlong the white road under the moonI sped, till the golden squareShowed of the blind lamplighted; then,My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ...Though Robin be the man of men,I’ll walk no more that wood.
Incurtain of the hazel wood,From sunset to the clear-of-star,An hour or more I feared, but stood—My lover’s road was far.Until within the ferny brakeStirred patter feet and silver talkThat set all horror wide awake—I fear the fairy folk ...That bind with chains and change a maidFrom happy smiling to a thingBetter in ground unhallowed laidWhere holy bells not ring.And whether late he came or soonI know not, through a rush of airAlong the white road under the moonI sped, till the golden squareShowed of the blind lamplighted; then,My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ...Though Robin be the man of men,I’ll walk no more that wood.
Incurtain of the hazel wood,From sunset to the clear-of-star,An hour or more I feared, but stood—My lover’s road was far.
Until within the ferny brakeStirred patter feet and silver talkThat set all horror wide awake—I fear the fairy folk ...
That bind with chains and change a maidFrom happy smiling to a thingBetter in ground unhallowed laidWhere holy bells not ring.
And whether late he came or soonI know not, through a rush of airAlong the white road under the moonI sped, till the golden square
Showed of the blind lamplighted; then,My hand on heart, I slackened, stood ...Though Robin be the man of men,I’ll walk no more that wood.
Theplain’s a waste of evil mire,And dead of colour, sodden-grey,The trees are ruined, crumbled the spireThat once made glad the innocent day.The host of flowers are buried deepWith friends of mine who held them dear;Poor shattered loveliness asleep,Dreaming of April’s covering there.Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does careFor Duty valorously done,Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!
Theplain’s a waste of evil mire,And dead of colour, sodden-grey,The trees are ruined, crumbled the spireThat once made glad the innocent day.The host of flowers are buried deepWith friends of mine who held them dear;Poor shattered loveliness asleep,Dreaming of April’s covering there.Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does careFor Duty valorously done,Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!
Theplain’s a waste of evil mire,And dead of colour, sodden-grey,The trees are ruined, crumbled the spireThat once made glad the innocent day.
The host of flowers are buried deepWith friends of mine who held them dear;Poor shattered loveliness asleep,Dreaming of April’s covering there.
Oh, if the Bringer of Spring does careFor Duty valorously done,Then what sweet breath shall scent the air!What colour-blaze outbrave the sun!
OnSussex hills to-dayWomen stand and hearThe guns at work alway,Horribly, terribly clear.The doors shake, on the wallThe kitchen vessels move,The brave heart not at allMay soothe its tortured love,Nor hide from truth, nor findComfort in lies. No prayerMay calm. All’s naught. The mindWaits on the throbbing air.The frighted day grows dark.None dares to speak. The gloomMakes bright and brighter the sparkOf fire in the still room.A crazy door shakes free....“Dear God!” They stand, they stare ...A shape eyes cannot seeTroubles blank darkness there.She knows, and must go prayNumb-hearted by the bedThat was his own alway ...The throbbing hurts her head.
OnSussex hills to-dayWomen stand and hearThe guns at work alway,Horribly, terribly clear.The doors shake, on the wallThe kitchen vessels move,The brave heart not at allMay soothe its tortured love,Nor hide from truth, nor findComfort in lies. No prayerMay calm. All’s naught. The mindWaits on the throbbing air.The frighted day grows dark.None dares to speak. The gloomMakes bright and brighter the sparkOf fire in the still room.A crazy door shakes free....“Dear God!” They stand, they stare ...A shape eyes cannot seeTroubles blank darkness there.She knows, and must go prayNumb-hearted by the bedThat was his own alway ...The throbbing hurts her head.
OnSussex hills to-dayWomen stand and hearThe guns at work alway,Horribly, terribly clear.
The doors shake, on the wallThe kitchen vessels move,The brave heart not at allMay soothe its tortured love,
Nor hide from truth, nor findComfort in lies. No prayerMay calm. All’s naught. The mindWaits on the throbbing air.
The frighted day grows dark.None dares to speak. The gloomMakes bright and brighter the sparkOf fire in the still room.
A crazy door shakes free....“Dear God!” They stand, they stare ...A shape eyes cannot seeTroubles blank darkness there.
She knows, and must go prayNumb-hearted by the bedThat was his own alway ...The throbbing hurts her head.
It’sa King’s life, a life fit for a King!To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loftNight long, on golden straw, and warm and soft,Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing“Revally”—drowse again; then wake to findThe bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming.“Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming.“Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what stillPeace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind,Shattered abruptly—splashing water, shoutOn shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging,Dixie against dixie musically clanging.—The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst allDear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.”Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup(Borrowed). First day on Rest, a FestivalOf mirth, laughter in safety, a still air.“No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind,Danger and the thick brown mud behind,An end to wiring, digging, end to care.Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowdMix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud,Authority forgotten, all goes wellIn this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell,Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read,Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread.The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and liesSmoking at length, content deep in his eyes.Officers like brothers chaff and smile—Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while,Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band.Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) inAnd out the trees the noisy sports begin.He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turnsSomersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flingsJavelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce;Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings.All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapesThe hurtless battering of those kindly japes.Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors,Men drift along the roads in three and fours,Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sitWaiting; many there are to serve, MadameForces her way with glasses, all ignoresThe impatient clamour of that thirsty jam,The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit,Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?”“What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.”Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll.Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide(Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way).No work, no work, no work! A lovely day!Down the main street men loiter side by side.So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afireWith the sun just sunken, though we cannot see,Hidden in green, the fall of majesty.Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desireBut once again to see the ricks, the farms,Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow;Life’s pageant fading slower and more slowTill Peace folds all things in with tender arms.The last stroll in the orchard ends, the lastCandles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart,Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart,Gladder for danger shared in the hard past,The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue,Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder howMother is keeping: she must be sleepy nowAs we, yet may be wondering all night through.”
It’sa King’s life, a life fit for a King!To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loftNight long, on golden straw, and warm and soft,Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing“Revally”—drowse again; then wake to findThe bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming.“Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming.“Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what stillPeace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind,Shattered abruptly—splashing water, shoutOn shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging,Dixie against dixie musically clanging.—The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst allDear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.”Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup(Borrowed). First day on Rest, a FestivalOf mirth, laughter in safety, a still air.“No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind,Danger and the thick brown mud behind,An end to wiring, digging, end to care.Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowdMix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud,Authority forgotten, all goes wellIn this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell,Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read,Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread.The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and liesSmoking at length, content deep in his eyes.Officers like brothers chaff and smile—Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while,Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band.Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) inAnd out the trees the noisy sports begin.He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turnsSomersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flingsJavelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce;Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings.All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapesThe hurtless battering of those kindly japes.Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors,Men drift along the roads in three and fours,Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sitWaiting; many there are to serve, MadameForces her way with glasses, all ignoresThe impatient clamour of that thirsty jam,The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit,Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?”“What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.”Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll.Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide(Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way).No work, no work, no work! A lovely day!Down the main street men loiter side by side.So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afireWith the sun just sunken, though we cannot see,Hidden in green, the fall of majesty.Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desireBut once again to see the ricks, the farms,Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow;Life’s pageant fading slower and more slowTill Peace folds all things in with tender arms.The last stroll in the orchard ends, the lastCandles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart,Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart,Gladder for danger shared in the hard past,The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue,Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder howMother is keeping: she must be sleepy nowAs we, yet may be wondering all night through.”
It’sa King’s life, a life fit for a King!To lie safe sheltered in some old hay-loftNight long, on golden straw, and warm and soft,Unroused; to hear through dreams dawn’s thrushes sing“Revally”—drowse again; then wake to findThe bright sun through the broken tiles thick-streaming.“Revally” real: and there’s an end to dreaming.“Up, Boys, and Out!” Then O what green, what stillPeace in the orchard, deep and sweet and kind,Shattered abruptly—splashing water, shoutOn shout of sport, and cookhouse vessels banging,Dixie against dixie musically clanging.—The farmer’s wife, searching for eggs, ’midst allDear farmhouse cries. A stroll: and then “Breakfast’s up.”Porridge and bacon! Tea out of a real cup(Borrowed). First day on Rest, a FestivalOf mirth, laughter in safety, a still air.“No whizzbangs,” “crumps” to fear, nothing to mind,Danger and the thick brown mud behind,An end to wiring, digging, end to care.Now wonders begin, Sergeants with the crowdMix; Corporals, Lance-Corporals, little proud,Authority forgotten, all goes wellIn this our Commonwealth, with tales to tell,Smokes to exchange, letters of price to read,Letters of friends more sweet than daily bread.The Sergeant-major sheathes his claws and liesSmoking at length, content deep in his eyes.Officers like brothers chaff and smile—Salutes forgotten, etiquette the while,Comrades and brothers all, one friendly band.Now through the orchard (sun-dried of dewfall) inAnd out the trees the noisy sports begin.He that is proud of body runs, leaps, turnsSomersaults, hand-turns; the licensed jester flingsJavelins of blunt wit may bruise not pierce;Ragtimes and any scrap of nonsense sings.All’s equal now. It’s Rest, none cares, none escapesThe hurtless battering of those kindly japes.Noon comes, the estaminets open welcome doors,Men drift along the roads in three and fours,Enter those cool-paven rooms, and sitWaiting; many there are to serve, MadameForces her way with glasses, all ignoresThe impatient clamour of that thirsty jam,The outcries, catcalls, queries, doubtful wit,Alike. Newspapers come, “Journal, m’sieur?”“What’s the news?” “Anything fresh, boy?” “Tell us what’s new.”Dinner, perhaps a snooze, perhaps a stroll.Tea, letters (most like), rations to divide(Third of a loaf, half, if luck’s our way).No work, no work, no work! A lovely day!Down the main street men loiter side by side.So day goes on blue-domed till the west’s afireWith the sun just sunken, though we cannot see,Hidden in green, the fall of majesty.Our hearts are lifted up, fierce with desireBut once again to see the ricks, the farms,Blue roads, still trees of home in the rich glow;Life’s pageant fading slower and more slowTill Peace folds all things in with tender arms.The last stroll in the orchard ends, the lastCandles are lit in bivvy and barn and cart,Where comrades talking lie, comfort at heart,Gladder for danger shared in the hard past,The stars grow bright ’gainst Heaven’s still-deepening blue,Lights in the orchard die. “I wonder howMother is keeping: she must be sleepy nowAs we, yet may be wondering all night through.”
Theyfound him when the dayWas yet but gloom;Six feet of scarréd clayWas ample roomAnd wide enough domain for all desiresFor him, whose glowing eyesMade mock at lethargies,Were not a moment still;—Can Death, all slayer, killThe fervent source of those exultant fires?Nay, not so;Somewhere that glowAnd starry shine so clear astonishes yetThe wondering spirits as they come and go.Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.OMIECOURT.
Theyfound him when the dayWas yet but gloom;Six feet of scarréd clayWas ample roomAnd wide enough domain for all desiresFor him, whose glowing eyesMade mock at lethargies,Were not a moment still;—Can Death, all slayer, killThe fervent source of those exultant fires?Nay, not so;Somewhere that glowAnd starry shine so clear astonishes yetThe wondering spirits as they come and go.Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.OMIECOURT.
Theyfound him when the dayWas yet but gloom;Six feet of scarréd clayWas ample roomAnd wide enough domain for all desiresFor him, whose glowing eyesMade mock at lethargies,Were not a moment still;—Can Death, all slayer, killThe fervent source of those exultant fires?Nay, not so;Somewhere that glowAnd starry shine so clear astonishes yetThe wondering spirits as they come and go.Eyes that nor they nor we shall ever forget.
OMIECOURT.